


if we start a commotion (i run the risk of losing you)

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Brief mention of non-con but there is absolutely no non-con, But only in the way that these guys all talk so casually about that kind of thing, Fergus is just panicking, First Time, Getting Together, Gratuitous Smut, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Who put some fluff in here, uh oh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Fergus doesn’t know – has not even the slightest inkling – that Adam is gay until the second that his special advisor shoves him up against a filing cabinet and latches his mouth onto his neck.Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't have fallen in love with?
Relationships: Adam Kenyon/Fergus Williams
Comments: 28
Kudos: 78





	if we start a commotion (i run the risk of losing you)

Fergus doesn’t know – has not even the slightest inkling – that Adam is gay until the second that his special advisor shoves him up against a filing cabinet and latches his mouth onto his neck.

“Adam – what – what are you doing?” Fergus gasps, his hands fluttering anxiously, coming to rest on Adam’s shoulders, then flitting away again. 

“Jesus Christ, if you have to ask then the dry spell has been too long,” Adam says, but to do that he has to remove his mouth, which at least gives Fergus’ brain a chance to try and reboot itself. Not that it helps much; Fergus is aware that he’s staring and why the fuck shouldn’t he be? They’re in a fucking cupboard at DoSaC and it’s lunchtime and Adam just – just did _that_. 

Why shouldn’t he be panicking about it? 

“Fergus,” Adam says, stepping forwards, but he doesn’t touch him again, thank God. “You’re freaking out.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Fergus snaps. “Maybe it’s because I’ve just been propositioned in a cupboard by my fucking colleague?”

Adam’s face does something strange then, and his arms come up to cross over his chest. He only does that when he’s nervous, and although Fergus is the one with the moral high ground here, he feels bad, because Adam hasn’t exactly read the situation wrong. It isn’t like Fergus hasn’t had one or two or thirty furtive wanks thinking about Adam doing exactly this to him at some point, and he is sure that he’s hardly been subtle checking Adam out on the squash court in those ridiculous shorts that he wears. It’s just that, firstly, Adam is Not Gay, a fact that Fergus has long been attempting to come to peace with and, secondly, if he _were_ gay, the stationary cupboard on a Tuesday lunchtime is hardly the place to make a move. 

But Adam’s still looking at him, and he’s genuinely afraid of what Fergus will say next, and because Fergus is a pushover, he says, “Alright. It’s alright. Don’t have a heart attack.”

“Fergus-”

“Shut up,” he says, because he’s a pushover but he’s not nice about it. 

Adam shuts up, and his arms stay up too, although he does start breathing again, perhaps thinking now that Fergus isn’t going to have him up in front of a workplace harassment tribunal.

Then Fergus realises that he is in charge here, and that means he has to say something, which will be difficult when a large percentage of his brain is off reliving the feeling of Adam’s lips on his skin, his hands resting on Fergus’ waist like they were made to fit there. 

Christ, the silence though. He’d almost be willing for Phil to come bursting in with a detailed description of his latest Star Wars fanfiction, just to break this up. Adam is the one who always knows what to say. 

“Alright,” Fergus says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright.”

A pause. 

“Alright.”

Another pause. 

“Okay.”

He isn’t doing well. 

“Jesus Christ on a bike, Ferg,” Adam says, finally unable to hold his silence any longer, although he still looks wary. “Just tell me to fuck off or to suck your cock or something, please.”

“But you’re – you’re not gay. You and Angela-”

It’s a lame thing to say and Fergus knows it, but the mental image Adam just put into his head provides fuel for his overheated brain and the fire is raging. 

Adam scoffs. 

“What is this, the seventies? I’m bisexual, obviously. I thought you knew that.”

“Why the _fuck_ would I know that?” Fergus hisses. “You don’t exactly go around with it printed on a t-shirt, do you?”

Adam groans and rubs his hands over his face, then grabs at his tie and pretends to pull it up into a noose, grimacing theatrically. 

“You can drive a man to that, Ferg, did you know? Do you think I go around treating random men like I treat you?”

“What-?” 

“I’ve been flirting the whole time, you moron. How many people do you see me going around touching like I touch you, huh? Have you _ever_ seen me tie Glen’s tie for him? Or brush Terri’s hair out of her eyes when she’s reading something?”

“But-”

“I don’t make a habit of talking to other blokes in the shower at the gym, Ferg, so I can get a sneaky eyeful, and I don’t bring them soup when they’re too stupid to feed themselves and I don’t fucking laugh at their jokes either. Or take them to the football on a Saturday so they can relax for two hours. It’s just you, you grade a, prize idiot.”

Adam is a little bit out of breath when his rant finishes, and there is an interesting colour Fergus has never seen creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks as Adam realises that he has given quite a lot away. 

The stationary cupboard is too small to have this conversation, especially as Fergus has at some point sat down on an upturned bucket and suddenly notices that his head is rather too close to a part of Adam that he absolutely can’t be thinking about right now. Not in this suit. 

So Fergus, the king of wimping out and getting Adam to fight his battles for him, makes a decision that is so brave, he feels like William Wallace at Stirling Bridge. 

“I need you to go over to Downing Street this afternoon and find out what is going on with the Education sec and that woman from the NSPCC. We need something on him for next week. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. And then, I want you to come round to mine tonight. Seven o’clock. I’ll make dinner.”

“And then,” Fergus says, in a low voice that makes Adam lean in to hear. “We’ll talk about that cock sucking.”

It’s hardly Mel Gibson, but it’s enough to make Adam’s jaw drop. 

**

Adam hightails it out of DoSaC so quickly that he practically leaves a Wiley Coyote style impression of himself in the air. So quickly in fact, and so unsubtly, that Terri turns to Fergus with a raised eyebrow. 

“What did you do to him?” she asks, and bloody hell, Fergus is sure that she knows. If Adam has been that obvious about it then someone who thrives on the scent of blood in the water is bound to have noticed. And there’s no one quite as sharky as Terri, at least not when it comes to collecting humiliation material. 

“He forgot a lunch meeting he had,” Fergus answers lamely, unable to even summon the braincells needed to tell her to piss off in the way that she deserves. Terri fucking notices that too, so he takes himself off to his office sharpish and stays there for the rest of the afternoon. 

Not that he gets any work done. It’s hard to, when the bloke you’ve fancied for three years suddenly decides a rainy Tuesday in November is the day to make a move. And in the stationary cupboard too. At some point, Fergus finds himself laughing at that. Maybe Adam isn’t as smooth as he always imagined he would be.

At five o’clock, Fergus makes a run for it when Terri has her back turned. 

He’s panicking again. 

Why did he invite Adam over? There’s nothing in his fridge except half a can of baked beans with a skin on top, a box of eggs so old that they could be drafted into the nuclear arsenal and two cans of beer.

He bloody hates cooking. 

And his flat hasn’t been cleaned since the April by-election. 

He sits miserably on the Tube, trying to use the station WiFi to scroll through a ’50 Easiest Recipes for Busy Millennials’ article on Buzzfeed. He isn’t sure if he is a millennial or not, but god knows that he’s busy, and they didn’t have an article entitled ’50 Easiest Recipes for Fuck Ups’, so it will have to do. 

Not that many of the recipes seem that easy, if he’s honest, but then anything trickier than frying some bacon is usually too much for him. Spiralising a carrot? Peeling garlic? If these are skills that he’s meant to have, then he’s screwed. He must look like shit, because there’s a woman about his age sat across from him who is staring, and seems on the brink of leaning over and checking if he’s about to pass out. 

He smiles at her, forces a grin, and she looks away. Probably thinks he’s a serial killer now. Fantastic. 

At his stop, he sighs and puts his phone away. It’s going to have to be pasta. 

In the little Sainsbury’s by the station, he realises that Adam hasn’t texted him all afternoon. He sometimes doesn’t, when he’s out playing his blood sports in Downing Street, but today is not a normal day, and _then_ Fergus begins to panic again, this time that Adam got hit by a bus, or that he’s gone home to grab his passport and leave the country. 

So he calls him, because he isn’t getting himself all worked up for nothing. Dithering about by the pesto, listening to the phone ring, Fergus realises he’s nervous about speaking to him. 

“Ferg,” Adam says warily, sounding a little bit breathless. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Er – just – checking that you are still coming.” He pauses and then hears what he’d said. “Coming round, I mean.”

“Yep,” Adam says. “I just went home to get changed. Can I bring anything? Bottle of wine? Six pack?”

He sounds so calm. How is he so calm? The bastard. It’s his fault they’re in this state to begin with. 

“Er, wine, yeah. If you want,” Fergus says, selecting the expensive pesto and dropping it into his basket. “Red.”

“Okay. Is seven going to give you enough time? You sound like you’re in Sainsburys.”

“Alright, Mystic Meg. Plenty of time. See you then.”

Adam is laughing as he hangs up the call, and it is that sound that drives Fergus to pick up some condoms before he goes to the self-checkout. The last thing he needs is lovely Mavis, the six-hundred-year-old cashier, knowing what he might be getting up to. He does give her a wave though, on his way out. The security guard, who definitely _did_ see him pick up the condoms, gives him a wink. 

He tries not to think about that. 

**

Adam is fashionably late, giving Fergus time to have a mini stroke at around 6.30, and another one at 7.10, because what the fuck are they doing? This is insane. Workplace things only end in two ways; marriage, or the absolute nuclear destruction of a working relationship and a lot of yelling. And Adam has never seemed the marriage sort. 

Regardless, Fergus manages to shove most of the crap in his lounge and kitchen into the cupboard whilst doing deep breathing exercises, and then does more deep breathing in the shower which is a bloody stupid thing to do when he inhales what feels like half the bottle of bleach that he’s just poured down the toilet. 

Adam better suck his dick at least for all this effort he’s gone to. He’s kicking old pants under the bed and spraying the duvet with Febreze when the doorbell rings. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

He looks in the mirror and smooths his hair down, still damp from the shower, then opens another button on his shirt. Then he does it back up. Too much. He looks like a pile of dog vomit left to soak into a carpet overnight, but this is what he’s working with and it isn’t like Adam doesn’t know that.

The bell doesn’t ring again, because Adam is Mr Cocky, and he’s probably busy draping himself artfully over the bannister. 

Well, he’s almost right. Adam is leaning against the wall, a bottle of wine in his hand and a smirk on his face. His afternoon must have gone a lot better than Fergus’ did, if he’s back to smirking. 

“You don’t have to look so smug, you know,” Fergus says, standing back to let him in. 

“I’m not _smug_.”

“You bloody are. I’ve had a fucking awful afternoon, because of you.”

“Because of me?”

Adam closes the door behind himself and puts the bottle of wine on the little table that had, until eleven minutes before, held six weeks of unopened post. When he turns around, Fergus becomes aware of how small his hallway is, and he tries to step back, pressing himself against the wall. 

Which doesn’t help, because Adam steps forward. 

“What did I do, Ferg?” he asks, his voice low. Adam has gone for having the extra button undone, giving Fergus a peek of that silvery chest hair that he’s perved on at the gym before, and that is the last coherent thought he has, because he’s grabbing Adam by a handful of that same shirt and shoving him backwards, and then he’s kissing him. 

Adam’s mouth tastes like mint, fresh and sharp, and he lets Fergus lead, only bringing his hands to rest on the small of Fergus’ back as Fergus tries to get closer still. 

“What did I do?” Adam gasps, his eyes twinkling, when Fergus comes up for air, and then Fergus shuts him up by shoving his tongue in his mouth. It’s filthy, wet, and Fergus has never seen the appeal of snogging until right this very second. Adam’s teeth nip at his lip and Fergus groans, tugging at Adam’s shirt until it’s loose from his jeans and sliding his hands up his back. He’s broad and warm, and Fergus gets to touch him, as much as he wants, and _fuck_ it – whatever happens after this, his wanks are going to be a lot better with this memory. 

“Come on,” Fergus says, dragging Adam by his shirt front down the hall and into his bedroom. Adam’s hands are on his waist, following along, and it is a bit weird to have the man be so agreeable but then he is getting what he wants, if the hard on in his jeans is anything to go by. Fergus can’t say he isn’t grateful that he’s allowed to be in charge just this once. 

They fall on the bed, and Adam kicks off his shoes, then Fergus is on him, kissing every inch of his neck that he can reach, because he once read in a Cosmo article that a man often initiated contact in the way that he liked to be touched, and the first thing Adam had done back in the cupboard was go for his neck. It is the right call; Adam groans and brings his hands up to hold Fergus’ head just where he wants it, his hips bucking up when Fergus sucks in just the right place. 

“Jesus Christ, touch me, will you?” Adam growls eventually, when Fergus has crept one hand down to rest on his stomach but not allowed it go any further. 

“Patience,” Fergus says, but then he is aching too, and he thinks he’d probably come in his pants like a teenager if he isn’t careful, so he doesn’t mess about for too long. Adam shoves his own jeans down just far enough for Fergus to get a handful, then tries to unbutton Fergus’ with shaking fingers. 

“Same time,” he says, his head back on the pillow as Fergus begins to work his cock with slow, long pulls. “And faster, you bastard. Come on.”

Somehow, there is enough of a braincell left which isn’t focused on Adam that manages to get Fergus’ own cock in hand, and then Adam turns on his side so Fergus can press against him. It is so fucking hot, and he gives up the slow seduction for lost, jerking them both faster until Adam is gasping and when Fergus sucks his neck again, Adam comes all over his hand, and Fergus does at the sight of _that_ because Jesus, who wouldn’t?

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Fergus says, his lips against Adam’s ear. “I can’t be the only one who’s ever told you that.”

“I’ve had no complaints,” Adam grins. “But Fergus, fuck me. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What, because I’m such a dweeb?” Fergus asks, but his heart rate is still sky high and he doesn’t want to fight, because he _is_ a bit of a loser and Adam isn’t wrong about that. 

“Shut up,” Adam says, wriggling out of his jeans and ruined underwear. “No one said you were a dweeb. Just didn’t expect you to be the boss, that’s all.”

“You didn’t like it?” Fergus says, his heart dropping, as Adam grabs a handful of tissues from the bedside table and wipes himself, then Fergus, clean. 

“I didn’t say that either, did I?” 

Adam’s voice is gentle and Fergus isn’t sure what to do with that, especially when he leans over to kiss him and this time, it’s not that frantic messy thing, but a softer, more lingering kind of kiss. Fergus isn’t sure he’s ever been kissed like that. It is so very nice. 

“We haven’t had that talk yet,” Adam says, getting back into his jeans but leaving the dirty pants on the floor, as though that isn’t going to be a terribly distracting thought that winds Fergus up all over again. “You promised me dinner and I believe I’m being held on the promise of something else.”

He chuckles as Fergus rolls over so violently that he falls off the bed, and even comes to help him up, like it’s a Jane Austen novel or something. Adam, strong and handsome and so good to him, when Fergus doesn’t deserve it at all, helps him up to his feet and reaches to brush his hair back into place for him. 

“Much better,” Adam murmurs, soft when he’s never soft with anyone. Soft with Fergus when he’d probably sell his grandma for the right price. 

Oh boy. 

Fergus is well and truly, figuratively, and probably about to be literally too, fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Andy, for reading it through for me <3
> 
> Title from the Buzzcocks song, which I listened to loudly, on repeat, writing this fic.


End file.
